


Easing In

by linguamortua



Series: Strike Me, Strike Anywhere [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Gym Sex, Identity Issues, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow's just a man. A man with jackboots and a penchant for face-fucking. Poor, desperate, Captain America doesn't really stand a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easing In

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Too Deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3496346) by [trill_gutterbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug). 



> I started writing this on a whim. After I finished the deep-throating scene, I had the extreme good fortune to happen upon trill_gutterbug's 'In Too Deep'. I immediately had to write more terrible, sexy Rumlow action. The credit, or blame, for the excesses in this fic, is therefore not entirely my own.
> 
> The series name is from Richard Siken's poem 'Wishbone', which I was reminded of when I encountered this [fantastic HYDRA playlist.](8tracks.com/brawlite/strike-me-strike-anywhere)
> 
> You can add me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).

_The locker room was empty when Steve finished sparring and trailed in after Rumlow, who may not  have been a supersoldier but who had a low and vicious array of dirty fighting tricks. He should have been tired, but the thrill of training with an ally for whom kicking Captain America in the balls presented no ethical issue kept him amped up. They bickered back and forth about last night's UFC matchup as they showered in little adjacent cubicles; Steve had mixed feelings about the strange mash-up of fighting styles with no apparent rules that had become so popular, but Rumlow loved it and the company was good. _

_"Still," he complained as they left the showers and towelled off, "It's not like proper boxing. There's no finesse, you know." Rumlow laughed  in a low chuckle and turned towards him, all lean muscle and dark hair and white teeth. _

_"Times change, Cap," he said, and then his eyes flickered across Steve's body and he looked worldly and knowing and Steve flushed up his neck and dressed in a hurry. _

-

Even before the ice, Steve had become accustomed to being the biggest fella in the room by at least half a head or so. Two-some decades of life as the little guy faded away pretty fast just as soon as his biceps grew thicker than some men's thighs. Practically overnight he had started to feel as though his old body had been a cosmic mistake, a joke in poor taste, a bad dream. Some new or dormant thrill arose in him whenever he caught a girl eyeing his shoulders, or a fella cutting his eyes across as they stripped down before a cold army shower. And thank the good Lord for cold showers, or no effort of willpower would have been able to contain his libido. Hell, even the war couldn't dampen his urges, not really, but at least it had provided a pressing temporary distraction.

Steve had been raised right, but it was impossible to stop his mind from generating a filthy running commentary once every cell in his body was newly primed to work and play and fuck and fight at perfect superhuman capacity. A showgirl perfunctorily bending over to adjust the buckle on her shoe. Two lads wrestling shirtless, sweaty and grinning, as their mates cheered them on. The heavy weight of Peggy's generous breasts under her shirt. A flicker of mingled jealousy and desire from a soldier at the urinal as Steve pulled his dick out to piss.

-

_ "Can't find anyone to take care of you?" Rumlow called over the shower wall with a hint of friendly malice and a side order of innuendo. Earlier, Rumlow had briefly managed to pin him and Steve knew he was half-hard under the man's strong thigh, knew Rumlow knew it . _

_ "Are you kidding?" Steve asked him, "It would be a PR disaster, or so I'm told. Apparently potential partners are carefully vetted." He sing-songed the last two words with a moue of distaste pursing his lips. "I've been discouraged from tom catting around." When Rumlow left the shower, he had a towel slung low down on his hips. A thin line of hair ran down his belly and disappeared from view. When he pulled the towel off, Steve couldn't help but look (unsubtle and boyishly shy and desperate). Rumlow caught his eye and looked wolfish. _

-

_ Gym tomorrow? _

Sure. What time?

_ Debriefing thing at 4, so say 5? _

I can make 5. Are we sparring or lifting?

_ Depends. Do you want me on top of you? _

I'm not sure what the appropriate response to that is.

_ It's not supposed to be appropriate. _

Modern day social mores are confusing sometimes.

_ Don't overthink it. _

It's a bit late for that.

_ Should have thought of that before you tried to rub off on my thigh. _

I wasn't trying, it just happened.

_ I don't buy that for a second. I see you staring in the locker room. _

You've got a lot to stare at.

_ Attaboy, Cap. Want to see more? _

Yes.

_ Wear the tight grey shorts and meet me in the locker room. _

-

_ Steve walked past Rumlow in the hall yesterday, the soldier flanked by two burly operatives. Rumlow didn't acknowledge him with more than a nod, but Steve caught the smell of clean sweat and aftershave and oh, imagined, imagined. _

-

Folk are taller and better fed in the modern age, but he's still a heavyweight by anyone's standards. He stands a few inches taller than Rumlow and is broader, too. He feels slightly unmoored in Rumlow's presence, though, aware that the man is older and harder and more experienced, self-assured in a way that Steve had never had the time or daring to learn. They look nothing alike, but this is what Bucky would have grown into after years in the army, he thinks, roguish charm hardening into the raw sexual power of an elite soldier. They have the same physicality, the same way of filling up space, the same louche confidence. He remembers the casual way Bucky would unzip himself, lean over with his other hand and jack them both off with practiced efficiency. Just a thing a guy might do for another guy, at a time when nice girls didn't and there wasn't a woman to be found deep behind enemy lines anyway. He imagines Bucky suntanned and scarred and aged by fifteen years; his eyes flick across Rumlow's face and down to his crotch. Rumlow catches the glance, leans back against the metal locker  and pops open his belt with one hand. He's still in his everyday black gear and Steve feels exposed by comparison, top half naked and bottom half in his dark grey gym shorts.

"Last chance to change your mind, Cap," Rumlow says, and then he unzips and pulls out his cock with no ceremony and no shame. Steve stares. Rumlow isn't wearing underwear and his fly opens out into a v that follows the lines of his hipbones. He's half-hard and just stroking himself lazily, but already his cock is almost filling out the loose ring of his fingers, long and heavy and obscenely red. Steve's mouth dries with desire and Rumlow reads him like a book. "Ever sucked a guy off?"

Steve shakes his head slowly and finds himself moving in and dropping to his knees. Rumlow smells like laundry detergent and a hint of aftershave, something with cedar; familiar, masculine smells. His left hand falls to Steve's shoulder, reeling him in until he smells skin and musk. He hesitates, pulse hammering in his throat and the shivering heat of arousal making his skin prickle. Rumlow grips his dick and runs it along Steve's lower lip.

"You're big," Steve tells him, his voice suddenly hoarse. Rumlow laughs, low and deep.

"Yeah," he agrees, palming his dick in his hand as if weighing it, "I'm gonna ruin you for other guys." He grins, showing his teeth. "Come on, Cap, open up." Steve lets his lips part, and Rumlow guides the head of his dick in to rest on his tongue. Steve laps tentatively, tastes skin and salt. Rumlow doesn't move, just lets him explore with his lips and tongue; he makes no audible sounds, as if blow jobs are something that just happen to him, something totally routine. Bucky was always the same, matter-of-fact and practically silent as Steve jerked him off. Steve settles more solidly onto his heels and opens his mouth wider. He wants a reaction, craves it like he used to crave the little gasp Bucky used to make when he came in Steve's hand.

Rumlow shifts position and pushes another inch or so into Steve's mouth. Steve fastens his lips around Rumlow's dick, jaws wide, and starts to slide up and down. He rolls his tongue around. Rumlow's cut, so his cock head is round and smooth and exposed. He pushes forward until his face rests against Rumlow's fist; his mouth feels full, his lips stretched wide but there's more, there's so much more left. He takes a gasping breath through his mouth and lifts his hand. Rumlow grabs his wrist easily.

"You don't need your hands to suck cock," he says. Steve looks up at him through his eyelashes and Rumlow makes a short, fast noise that sounds like he's stifling a groan. His right hand moves from his dick to Steve's jaw. "You warmed up down there?" Steve makes a noise of assent. Rumlow's hand gripping his face sends an electric charge through him. Rumlow moves his hand and Steve wants to protest but then it's cupping the back of his neck and he whimpers and swallows, his mouth working erratically. As Rumlow slides in further, steadily but inexorably, Steve feels the drag over the back of his tongue and retches a little,  throat convulsing. The noise seems to be what Rumlow wants; he groans and starts rolling his hips, pulling Steve's head back by the hair so his cock has easy access down his throat. 

There is nothing, Steve thinks with sudden, confusing intensity, nothing in this world that he wants more than to hear Rumlow's moans as he comes. He pulls off momentarily, spitting into his palm and starting to stroke himself off. Then Rumlow is claiming him again, fucking his mouth and staring down at him with his lips parted and his teeth showing very white against his tanned skin. It's a struggle to keep his eyes open and look up, so he stops trying and lets Rumlow's dick slide down his throat in a rhythm too fast to be sensual but slow enough that he feels every movement. 

"Show me your tongue," Rumlow tells him hoarsely, and for a moment Steve can't parse the order. The calloused hand gripping the back of his head moves to his chin, rubs at the swell of his throat where he's swallowing down dick. He drops his lower jaw, pushes his tongue out along the underside of Rumlow's dick until it touches his balls. It makes him gag, drooling over his chin, and Rumlow tilts his head sideways to watch Steve choking himself in his urgency to obey. "Fuck," Rumlow says, and then again, lower and darker, " _Fuck_."  Steve lets his moan slip out with his orgasm, hot come trickling over his fingers and down his wrist and thigh. He swallows compulsively, tongue rippling along Rumlow's dick. His orgasm relaxes him and his throat opens, gives way. He submits to Rumlow's cock, kneels there loose and blissed out and listening to the obscene, wet sounds. Rumlow's fucking him deep now, so deep that Steve's rocking back on his heels with every thrust and breathing wet and sloppy through his nose. Each time Rumlow's cock pushes down his throat it forces a humming, gulping noise from him, a tiny sound of arousal at the thought of how he must look right now. Tears beading on his lashes and seeping out down his face; hands resting palms-up on his thighs; thick spit mixing with Rumlow's briny precome and trickling out the corners of his mouth, over his bottom lip. Then it's Rumlow's turn to lose it; he gives two long, firm thrusts into Steve's throat, pressing himself home with little hitches of his hips. He pulls out, jerks Steve's lower jaw open with his thumb and rubs his cock head on Steve's tongue, unloading with a ragged moan. That moan is the only warning Steve has before his mouth is abruptly full of Rumlow's spunk, salty and pungent and spilling down his chin. He swallows twice, dazed, then coughs wetly, leaning forward to rest his forehead on Rumlow's hip. "Don't get sentimental, Cap," laughs Rumlow, and he pushes Steve away, ruffles a hand over his hair and disappears to clean up. 

After Rumlow's left, gym bag over his shoulder and a satisfied flush to his neck and face, Steve goes to stare at himself in the mirror. He's wrecked, eyes red and wet, nose running, chin and chest glistening with spit and come, hair plastered unevenly over his forehead. He pictures himself dressing and walking through the hallways of the Triskelion, smelling musky and sweaty and used. In the shower a few minutes later, he jerks himself off again and floats around in a languid haze for the rest of the day.

-

_ It's not that Rumlow is irresistable, or that Steve's in love, it's not a big important conquest. It's just that yesterday a nice lady in admin gave his arm a friendly squeeze and he wanted to lean into her touch and kiss her up against the wall and propose. He desperately needs to get fucked, is the thing. _

-

They meet late, long after almost everyone's packed up and gone home. The chlorine and sweat smell of the locker rooms has already started to provoke a Pavlovian response in Steve, his dick thrilling and twitching as soon as he opens the door and walks in. He starts to change out of his clothes, thinking about plausible deniability, and then Rumlow walks in when he's in jeans and bare feet and smirks at him like a shark at prey.

"Evening," he says to Steve, stalking across the floor with predatory grace.

"Hi," Steve replies, voice husky and heartbeat fluttering against his chest. Since when did decent Brooklyn boys get throat-fucked by older men in locker rooms? Since when did he feel compelling urges to get bent over, opened up and fucked like a girl? He licks his lips lustfully, nervously. Rumlow gestures around the corner with a jerk of his head.

"Let's get away from the door," he says, leading the way past rows of lockers to the long line of sinks. The wall behind the sinks is mirrored and lit with strip lights that bleach out their skin. Rumlow shoves him up against the sinks and leans into him, hands covering his where they grip the edge of the counter. In his thick-soled boots, Rumlow is tall enough to crowd him backwards, make him lean so his hips are pressing forward and his lower back is arched. Rumlow kisses him then, deep and unexpected. The little noise Steve makes is high-pitched and embarrassing. Rumlow smiles and slides his tongue into Steve's mouth, fucking it backwards and forwards. He could easily pull his hands out from under Rumlow's, but he finds he doesn't want to, so he settles for hooking a bare foot around the back of Rumlow's thigh and trying to nudge him closer. "Slut," Rumlow says against his mouth, playful and vicious all at once.

At some point in his short but strangely long life, Steve thinks, he really lost control of things. He lets Rumlow turn him around, lets himself be bent forward, lets his jeans and boxer shorts be stripped away. Rumlow knees his legs apart so he's standing wide with his forearms resting on the counter and his back horizontal. He lets Rumlow grab his balls for a moment. Sex is supposed to be about romance, he thinks. It's supposed to be about communication and closeness and partnership. He lets Rumlow spread his ass wide, and then there's a warm, wet tongue up between his cheeks and a clever hand on his balls and no, no, he was wrong, sex is supposed to be about being fucked in a locker room right here and now by a hard-faced soldier in jackboots. 

Rumlow licks him in a few long stripes and then starts probing with his tongue, working at Steve's hole and balls by turns. He gasps and rocks back, confused and hopeful. He wants that tongue inside him. Rumlow flicks and plays and breathes hot on his skin and then finally, blessedly, pushes his tongue against Steve's ass until it gives and he slips inside a little. It's barely anything, and almost as soon as he starts Rumlow stops and stands up. Steve makes to stand and turn around, but Rumlow keeps him down with a hand on his back.

"Best thing about tac gear," he says conversationally, unsnapping something on his pants, "Is all these great pockets." Steve sneaks a look behind him; Rumlow's obviously just come off duty and he looks sleek and fit and lethal in tight-fitting black. He's still wearing his heavy belt, holster and stun baton hugging his right hip. There's a rustle, and then Rumlow drops a handful of foil packets on the counter, sorting through them with a finger. "You've never been fucked before, have you?"

"No," Steve admits, feeling very naïve .

"Not even during the war?" Rumlow asks with mock shock. "No fumble with a buddy in a tent somewhere in Nazi Germany?"

Steve thinks about messy handjobs and scruffy brown hair and a blonde chorus girl and surreptitiously wanking in the barracks showers.

"Nope."

"I'm gonna fix that for you," Rumlow says and  _oh God his cock_ , Steve thinks, simultaneously aroused and terrified. Behind him, Rumlow tears open a foil sachet with his teeth and squeezes something cold and wet over Steve's asshole, rubbing it in like lotion or Vicks. It glides, smooths the way for Rumlow's fingers. "Get your head down," Rumlow directs, and Steve readjusts so his face is resting on his forearms and he's presenting his ass up. With tortuous slowness, Rumlow pushes his thumb inside Steve, all the way inside, and then gives his balls a squeeze with his fingers. He gives his hand a little shake, pulls out. Then it's a finger, and then another in there too, stretching him and curling upwards with a burst of pleasure that makes Steve give that stupid, high whimper again.

Rumlow steps up closer behind him, leans over his shoulder. "I'm gonna put all four of my fingers up your ass, Cap," he murmurs right in his ear, the words sliding out on hot, damp breath.

"Four," repeats Steve mindlessly. Rumlow's left arm is across his shoulders and he's leaning his full weight down over Steve's back, pushing his fingers home by thrusting with his hips. The third finger burns just a touch but it fills him up in a way that provokes the most delicious shudder down his spine. Rumlow runs his thumb down the crack of Steve's ass, collecting lube and massaging heavy, eager breaths out of him. The stretch of his hole is mirrored by the stretch in his hamstrings and down his back; his muscles tense up and steady him as Rumlow presses his fingers in and out. The fourth finger is torture. His ass tightens at the discomfort, but Rumlow folds his palm, works his fingers in down past the first knuckles. "Slower -- ah!" Steve mumbles into his arms, and Rumlow gives a dirty laugh, leans harder  on his back.

"Take it," he tells Steve, pushing in deeper. "How do you think you're going to take my cock if you can't take this?" He flexes his hand and Steve feels his asshole give, feels Rumlow's knuckles push into him, stinging. He makes a small noise of pain and Rumlow retaliates by grabbing his hair, shaking his head like a misbehaving dog. "Take it," he repeats, and then, wickedly, says, "Or did you want more?" Steve gives a little jerk at the word  _more_ , his hard cock bouncing as his hips twitch forward in anticipation. "So that's how it is," Rumlow says. "Did you guys have fisting back in eighteen-twenty-whenever?"

"Fisting," gasps Steve, unable to form it into a question.

"Yeah," Rumlow laughs, still inexorably fucking Steve with his fingers, still rubbing up against him as if he's dry-humping him. "It's a bit like this, except you get my whole hand up your ass." Steve's moan is thin and conflicted, blood rushing to his face with embarrassment. Rumlow's confidence is deeply sexy and totally humiliating for him, but like magic he's relaxing into it and suddenly the burning becomes a bone-deep, hot tingle and Rumlow's fingers are moving inside him effortlessly. He wants more of it, all of it; he tries pushing back. Rumlow punishes his enthusiasm by removing his fingers and standing up.

"Don’t--" Steve begins, but Rumlow is grabbing a condom, smoothing it over himself and slicking up his dick. He lines up behind Steve, dick resting right there but going nowhere, and his hands are on Steve's hips, firm and strong.

"Ask me for it," Rumlow commands.

"Please," tries Steve, blushing wildly and slurring his words. Rumlow slaps him across his right ass cheek and Steve yells.

"Use your words, Cap," he taunts.

"Fuck me," says Steve, imagination alive with terrible possibility.

"Better," Rumlow says, and nestles his dick up towards Steve's hole. He pauses, expectantly.

"I want," Steve stutters out, and oh God, Rumlow is going to make him say it out loud. "I want your cock in-- inside me, in my ass."

"Yeah, Cap," groans Rumlow and pushes his cockhead inside. Steve's fingers scrabble erratically at the countertop; Rumlow's big, so big, and it's not the same as his fingers at all. It's just the tip -  _just the tip_ -  he thinks wildly, suppressing an hysterical giggle, but it's almost too much. Rumlow pulls out, presses in again, a little deeper this time. Steve moans. It sounds nasal, muffled by his arms. Rumlow's cock is stretching him open, his own cock bobbing against his belly as their bodies rock together.

He's exposed like this, a human sacrifice pressed against the counter under harsh lights. Anyone could come in, see his naked body splayed and opened and fucked. Rumlow is still completely dressed, pants unzipped and riding a little low but otherw ise covered. As if reading his mind, Rumlow leans down and pulls his head up by the hair so that he's staring into the mirror.

"Hi, beautiful," he grins. "You want to watch yourself getting fucked?"

"Yes," Steve says immediately, writhing inside with desire and disgrace. He looks pale and washed out in the strip lights, folded in half and sweaty-faced. By contrast, Rumlow is tanned and confident and fully clothed, posed commandingly behind him with his shoulders and biceps flexing with every slow thrust. He resettles his left hand on Steve's hip, twines his right hand more securely in Steve's hair and then, eyes locked on Steve's in the mirror, he drives his hips all the way home.  Every inch of his big dick is buried in Steve, sparking something like a livewire when it curves up wards and presses in the right spot.

"Finally," Rumlow says and begins fucking him in earnest, hips slapping against Steve's ass. He's pulling Steve's hair back so he's got no choice but to look in the mirror. He tries to sneak a hand down to his dick but Rumlow slaps it back on the counter, grabs at his hair again. "I want your full attention," Rumlow pants. "Watch me." Steve stares at the mirror, struggling to focus. Rumlow slaps his ass again. "Look at my face while I'm fucking you," he says, and Steve's eyes travel upward to Rumlow's dark eyes, his cheekbones, the little scars and marks from a lifetime of fighting. Rumlow's mouth curves into a crooked smile, teeth white and even. "You like that? You like getting bent over and screwed? "

The sound Steve makes is nothing approaching a word; it's a desperate, animal noise, throaty and pleading. There's sweat rolling down his back now, he's pushing his hips backwards in time with Rumlow's thrusts, desperately fucking himself on that thick cock. Every few thrusts his own dick rubs up against the cold counter and he's close, he's so close but he needs more, needs to get jacked off.

"Please," he begs Rumlow, knowing it won't get him what he wants.

"Say it," Rumlow tells him breathlessly. He's gritting his teeth, his tight black shirt starting to show sweat on his chest. Steve's hands are sweating too, squeaking on the countertop as Rumlow pounds into him.

"Let me come," Steve begs.

Mercy of mercies, Rumlow lets go of his hair and reaches down, leaning over his back so he can reach Steve's cock. He holds his palm to Steve's face and Steve doesn't need to be told what to do; he spits on Rumlow's hand. Rumlow's grunting with each thrust now, louder than Steve's ever heard him. His body is hot and damp against Steve's, his pants rough on bare legs, and then Steve's getting stroked off with a strong, calloused hand and he sobs out a moan.

"Yes," he whimpers, "God yes, yes, please, ah, ahh--" and then he comes hard into Rumlow's waiting hand and his knees almost sag. Rumlow pulls out, lets him drop to the floor with his hands holding the counter edge for support. There's a pause and a wet, plastic noise as the condom comes off.  He comes around to Steve's right side and turns his face with a hand on his chin.

"Open wide," Rumlow breathes, and he presses his cock onto Steve's tongue and jerks off into his mouth with a few hard strokes. Steve feels his come spurt out over his tongue, onto the inside of his cheek. He swallows; tries to wipe his mouth. "Lick me clean," Rumlow smirks, and Steve is too spent to blush or demur, past embarrassment. He licks long stripes along Rumlow's dick as it starts to soften, tasting the salt and the chemical tang of fresh semen. Rumlow steps away, tucks himself back into his pants and grins down at Steve, sweaty and wrecked on the floor. "Ladies and gentlemen, Captain America," he announces, and doesn't break eye contact as he sucks some of Steve's come off his wrist. He fixes his hair in the mirror, splashes some cold water on his face and looks for all the world like a man who's just enjoyed a casual jog  in the park and a nice cool shower. 

"Same time next week?" Steve quips from the floor, and Rumlow laughs hard, a big, exuberant bark.

"Yeah," he says, "I'll put it in my calendar."

Once he hears the locker room door close behind Rumlow, Steve pulls himself to his feet. He needs a shower; he does not envy anyone who might smell him on his way home. In the mirror he is still unnaturally pale in the light, but he looks sated, his eyes heavy-lidded and lips flushed and parted.  _Well fucked_ , he thinks.  _God bless living in the future_.

-

_ "I could ease you into it, Cap," says Rumlow after the gym, dropping the pretense and fingering his cock through his shorts. "Nobody's gotta know about this," he presses, sweat still slick in the hollow of his throat from wrestling, and Steve licks his lower lip, steps in closer and drops to his knees . _


End file.
